


Big, Bad Sicario Anthology II

by CyanideRadiance



Series: The Narco Diaries [2]
Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Oops, POV Third Person Limited, Rayla POV, but here we are, but kinda not?, end me, enjoy this dump of words as much as I did writing it, idek have fun, ish?, like waaay more fluff than anticipated, narco!Callum, rayla-centric, sicario!AU, sicario!Rayla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 14:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20277145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideRadiance/pseuds/CyanideRadiance
Summary: Sicario- Noun. sicario (plural sicarios) hitman, hired killer (especially when referring to Latin American drug cartels).A collection of snippets that offer a glimpse into the life of assassin Rayla after the oblivious narco heir, Callum, tumbles into her life. She may have signed up for it when she accepted the hit on him, but she was going to complain the whole time.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamawoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamawoken/gifts).

> Looking for the companion piece to my narco!Rayllum AU? Probably not. Yet here we are. Yes, porscheczar fuels my AU madness. Yes, this also became a behemoth equivalent to the first part of this series. Yes, I'm posting all at once because fuck it dude.  
So. Enjoy the feelingsTM and softness very contrary to what one would expect a narco!AU to be.  
And, as always, please send help.

  1. **Of Mr. FBI**

“Oh my God, Callum are you okay?”

“Yeah, they just asked me a lot of questions about Dad… and you,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “They kept calling you a sick aria which, I’m sorry, but you’re not. I couldn’t decide if they were complimenting your operatic skills, which is crazy because you have zero. Or if they were saying it was awful, which I’m sorry _again_, but I have to agree. Please never go into Broadway.”

She gave him a funny look. _Sick aria?_ “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know! I asked them the same thing! Although, by the end of it all, they were more confused than I was.” He had a deviously smug look on his face. Rayla wanted to both hug and choke him. He had been stupid enough to be caught by the FBI.

He had put his family in danger.

His friends.

And, most importantly to her, _himself._

“Who even uses the work ‘sick’ to describe an aria? I could think of a million better words.”

Ray frowned, thinking about what other things could have happened. She liked none of them. “You don’t even know a million words, Cal.”

“Semantics. ‘Is she or is she _not _a sick aria, Callum?’ Uh, I don’t _know_. Why would you even describe someone as a song? I’m breaking my head over this. _Sick aria, sick aria,_” he mocked, stomping to her kitchen. “I need a drink.”

She rolled her eyes at his thematics. He didn’t even like alcohol—_Wait._ “They were asking you if I was a _sicaria _not sick aria, you big doofus!” she called, jerking up.

“Then why didn’t they just say it the way you did? I know what a _sicaria _is. It’s the feminine version of _sicario, _isn’t it? I swear, they literally put a pause between the syllables. Also, now that I think about it, why don’t you use _sicaria_ instead?” He tailed back in with red fingers on one hand, purple Taki bag in the other, and loudly crunching. “They were so right when they said, ‘you’re not you when you’re hungry,’ huh?”

“That was Snickers, not Takis,” she said absently.

He grunted, “They were right anyways,” a few crumbs flying out of his mouth.

“Don’t judge the FBI agent’s pronunciation when you just said _sicaria _the same way they did, I’m sure. I use _sicario _because people have trouble with gender rules in Spanish. I just don’t care enough.”

“You’re a strange one, Rayla,” he said.

She watched him munch happily at the spicy chips, gulping his water down after a few. He had just gone through forty-eight hours of exhausting interrogation, and it showed. His hair was mussed, bags under his eyes deeper than she’d ever seen. His clothes were wrinkled, and there were cuff marks on his wrists.

Her chest tightened suddenly. That was _his _spot on her couch. The thought of him not there, of him not _here _at all—

She couldn’t bear it.

_Big, bad sicario_, she said to herself mockingly. His verdant eyes snapped up to meet hers, and he offered a lopsided smile, red chili powder marring his face. It was tired and gentle and genuine and painful all at once. Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

_Oh, no_. She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t even sure what ‘this’ meant. But she knew she couldn’t do it anymore. Not without him.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.” She could taste the bitterness of her tone, but his smile only widened.

“See, here’s the funny thing about that. You _didn’t._”

“I don’t know why,” she mumbled sulkily. She would be _so_ much richer right now. Less headaches. Not a care or worry in the world. “Actually, I should’ve let Janai kill you.” A nasty part of her, the one that pulled the trigger as easily as snapping in a button, wanted to hurt him.

He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, please. I know you wouldn’t have let her kill me out of principle. You two have this freaky-deaky and, quite frankly, _weird_ little unspoken murder competition. Besides, your pride would never have let her have the final blow.”

He knew her too well.

A weird mix of joy and anger bubbled. He came crashing into her life with no regard for the person she used to be. Things had been so simple during the years BCE or ‘Before Callum Era.’ She had been happy, and the chances of her being caught due to third party intervention was at an all-time low of practically zero.

Turned her world upside down, tore it apart, and then began piecing it together again. In a novel sort of way that she both hated it because it wasn’t the same but loved it because, well, it wasn’t the same. She really _had _been the big, bad _sicario_.

And then, _and then_, came along this fucker and a half.

Even though she technically sought him out first.

  1. **Of R. I. C. O**

_You might just get hit with the R.I.C.O._, Callum sang. He suddenly stopped, turning to Rayla in horror. “Ray, _I _could get hit with the R.I.C.O.!”

It took her a moment to process what he was saying. She was a bit caught up in the fact that he was actively listening to Drake. Going out of his _way _to listen to Drake. As much as he bitched about how much he hated him and how much he hated the fact that Rayla played him all the time, here he was. A new convert.

_Welcome to the Dark Side, Lover Boy, _she thought.

“Rayla!” he said in response to her devilish smile. “This is serious. It’s a federal law.”

“Mhm, mhm.” She nodded sagely. “If you got hit with the R.I.C.O., it doesn’t matter because you are literally _rico_.”

“I’m not the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. That’s just a silly thing to say.”

She did a double take, swerving slightly into the next lane. How hard did she have to bash her head against the car window before she blacked out? Although, she did have to give him props. She didn’t think he actually knew what R.I.C.O. stood for. _But_, she reasoned with herself, _he doesn’t know what _rico _means_. So he only got half props, which was more than he usually got.

“_Rico _is rich in Spanish,” she deadpanned.

He made an exasperated sound. “You _know_ my Spanish is limited to the cusses you throw at me and drug speak.”

“Then you should know exactly what _rico _means!”

“Well, now I do.” He reached over and pressed repeat on the song, doing his best to follow along to the talking excuse Drake called rap.

_I've been counted out so many times, I couldn't count it_  
Funny how now my accountant is havin' trouble tryna count it  
To the people that think that I owe you shit  
Payback's a bitch and you know that shit

He suddenly lowered the volume, staring intently at her profile. She shot him another look. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

He furrowed his brow and tapped his chin in interest. But his silence persisted. Now this was just uncomfortable.

She rolled her eyes and huffed. “If I have something on my face, either tell me or do something about it. Otherwise, keep playing that stupid game on your phone.”

“First off, it’s not stupid.”

“Secondly?”

“I think Drake sold his soul to the devil.”

Rayla accidentally slammed on the brakes a bit too hard, and Callum made a noise as the seatbelt dug into his neck. “I’m sorry, _what_?” What was wrong with him?

“Hear me out,” he said slowly. “His first few albums suck literal monkey balls. Then, all of a sudden, he’s got all these freaking bops, and he’s famous. Like, he actually beat out the Beatles for most hits on the Billboard charts.”

“Uh huh… And you think this warrants the claim you’re making?”

“_The Beatles, _Ray. As in the most influential band of all time, arguably.”

“Not arguably anymore if Drake beat them out,” she countered.

“That’s what I’m saying! _Drake_ does not equate to the Beatles. It’s just facts.”

She nodded slowly, considering what he’d said thus far. “Alright, continue humoring me. I’m actually intrigued.”

“Pfft, that’s a first,” he muttered. “Anyways, then, all of a sudden—”

“Everyone loves him,” she concluded.

“Exactly!”

“And he _sucks_. But, for some reason, everyone loves him. It’s a universal understanding that he’s a crappy artist, but he’s just _so _good. It gets even _weirder._”

She had to admit, she was pretty invested in what he had to say now. And he was so into what he was saying. It wasn’t often that he got this worked up about anything. Of course, it had to be a Drake conspiracy theory, but she supposed there were worse things.

“Look, everyone knows his first two albums weren’t all that great. _But_, according to Wikipedia, ‘on February 10, 2013, the same night Drake won a Grammy for Best Rap Album at the 55th Grammy Awards, he announced the title of his third album would be Nothing Was the Same.’ So—"

She interrupted, “Okay, you just cited Wikipedia to back you up. Your argument is thus completely invalidated.”

“No, no,” he said, holding up a finger. “Everyone uses Wiki. They just don’t cite it. _Anyways_, his album, conveniently titled ‘_Nothing Was the Same’ _and announced when receiving a Grammy he should _never _have gotten, is just suspicious! Especially because nothing _was _the same after that! He just… Blew up! Then his fourth album _If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late_ became a sensation because memers are going to meme. It’s been nothing but success.”

Rayla tried her best to not laugh at his passionate speech. How did he do that all in one breath? But… He kind of had a point.

“Also, have you heard his new song New Guidance?”

“Pfft, _have _I?” Rayla said, mildly offended he would even ask. Of course she had. Who did he think she was? Some sort of heathen?

“Sorry, dumb question. But you realize it’s a song with Chris Brown, right?”

“Ugh. Much as I hate to admit, Mr. Off-Brand-MMA-Woman-Beater extraordinaire is pretty musically inclined.”

“Okay, that’s exactly what I mean! Chris Brown has been off mainstream for _years _after his incident with Rihanna. Rightfully so, of course. But _all_ of a sudden, he’s in a Drake song. And _boom_! He’s in top charts all over. If you listen to the song, it’s pretty obvious Chris Brown is more talented. Like, no contest. But the whole thing is that _Drake _is in it.”

“Everyone loves Drake,” Rayla said as Callum’s argument seemed more and more solid.

“And no one can tell you _why_. He’s not any good, really.”

“_No es de Dios,_” she said slowly

“Right? It’s not from God. _Es de Satanas._”

“Oh, look at you! Of course you’d know how to say ‘It’s from Satan’. Who taught you that?”

He let out a laugh. “Drake did when he signed his soul off.”

“Be serious here,” she urged him.

“It’s a secret,” he said, smiling at her.

He replayed the song once more, cranking the volume up. Warmth blossomed within Rayla’s chest. Only he could make the claim that Drake is a little devil groupie and get away with it. He had a creative mind, that was for sure.

She found herself more and more interested in what else went on up there.

And that was mighty dangerous.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the car nerd info and beta, porsche  
Enjoy, everyone!

**3\. Of _El Chapo_**

It wasn’t often that Rayla was able to convince Callum to sit down for any sort of documentary or television show. He was pretty fond of binging movies for hours, but heaven forbid she suggest they watch a miniseries of five fucking episodes. Oh, no. He was too good for that. Soren had once told her Callum was incapable of Netflix and chill because he fucked up the Netflix part. Which, according to Soren, was integral to the chill part.

Soren was sort of a fucking weirdo.

Not that she was in any position to judge. She did have quite a bit of blood on her hands. And sometimes that blood was literal.

Callum shook her shoulder, pointing at the screen in earnest. “Look, look, Ray! It’s Joaquín Archivaldo Guzmán Loera. The leader of the Sinaloa Cartel himself.” He giggled and rubbed his hands together gleefully.

She was impressed that he managed to say all of that without stumbling over the pronunciations. He may not binge shit, but he definitely had become enamored with a certain _El Chapo _show. For some reason, he was obsessed with the Mexican drug lord, and Rayla was helpless to stop him.

“_El Chapo? _More like _El Guapo,_ am I right, Ray?” He doubled over laughing, and she sighed. He’d really just done that. Called _El Chapo_ ‘the handsome one’ in Spanish.

Things were getting out of hand.

Was this really the guy she was dating?

Because she didn’t remember signing up for this.

“You’re making jokes in another language when you can barely speak English. Maybe we should switch to _Narcos_ instead?”

He immediately straightened and gave her a disgusted look. “You _dare_ to even _suggest_ we watch something _not _about my mans _El Chapo_? Blasphemy.”

“I don’t know,” she said dubiously. “You might actually like Pablo Escobar more.”

He gasped, hand flying to his chest. “I—That– You wound me with your words.” He was always so fucking dramatic, but at least he made her life more interesting, she supposed.

“Hey, don’t knock Escobar until you try him.”

“I know a bit about Escobar. To be fair, he did get caught because he kept calling his wife. _El Chapo_ kind of sucks in that aspect. Him and his sidepiece. Blegh.”

“Wow, I’m surprised you even knew that,” Rayla admitted.

Callum turned to her suddenly, placing a hand on her knee. “If I were ever to get caught for doing druggy things, it would be because of you.”

Was she supposed to be flattered? Because that was a little fucking offensive.

He tried again, “I would never _El Chapo_ you. I’d Escobar you.”

“Dude,” she said, grimacing.

“Rayla. I can’t really imagine my life without you. I’d do everything in my power to stay in touch with you, even knowing I could get caught. And if I ever _were _to get caught, it would be worth it. Because it’s you. It’s always been you.”

Oh, fuckity fuck.

Her heart began to pound.

_No, no, no. Fucking—_

She was in love with him.

It was a messy and clumsy sort of strange confession, but it was wholly hers. And it wouldn’t be from Callum if it didn’t make her question why she never killed him. But also reaffirm she made the right choice.

**4\. Of Goats and Lambs**

Rayla’s fist pounded into Callum’s bedroom door, the sound echoing across the long hallway. Marcos to her left look decidedly unimpressed and a smidge annoyed but she couldn’t be bothered to lend even a half of a shit. She was all out of shits to give. Callum had stolen all of those somewhere along their friendship.

What a punk.

“Cal,” she hollered. Marcos made a move to stop her, but she shot him a glare accompanied by a raised index finger. He frowned, and she raised a brow challengingly. “Oh, Callum,” she sang-song. Daring Marcos to do something about her. He stepped back, slightly shaking his head.

_Yeah, that’s right_, she thought at him. _Don’t fuck with me._ Harrow had already lost two men at her hand this month, and she was hundreds of thousands of dollars richer for it. She smirked a bit at the thought. Harrow respected her, even if she got on his nerves every once in a while.

Especially when she took out some of the people from his inner ring.

But how could she resist that cash money?

Callum finally opened the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Rayla? It’s almost two AM. What the hecking shit are you doing here? And how did you find where I live?”

“I’ve always known where you live,” she rolled her eyes. The worst kind of _sicarios_ were the one that weren’t prepared. And she loved doing extensive research on her targets. Made doing the job all the more enjoyable. There was nothing for her in putting a bullet between a stranger’s eyes. Although, Runaan very much disagreed with her.

Oh, well. To each their own, she supposed.

“Ah, you’re awake!” she said excitedly.

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” he snapped, turning to Marcos. He made a gesture at Rayla, but the guard could only shrug.

“Sir—”

“No, no. I know. She’s unstoppable when she wants to be.”

“Is that some bitterness I hear in your voice, Cal?” she teased.

“I could just kill you right now. Like straight up, first degree, I’d end up on death row murder you. Sleep is _sacred_, woman, and not even the people I love can get in the way of that.”

Wait, wait wait.

Had he just admitting she was someone he loved? Her cheeks burned as the implications of his words fully sunk in. He was letting her get in the way of his sleep. Somewhere along the way, she’d become special to him.

Yikes.

She’d deal with all that emotional bullshit later when she was lying in bed and wired on the adrenaline rush this little adventure was about to give her.

“Get dressed,” she sang, “I’ve got plans for us.”

Callum groaned, leaning heavily against his doorframe and shot Marcos a pleading look. It brought her back into the present, but she could feel the flush had spread down her neck and across her ears. Was it hot in here, or was it just her?

“I’m giving you five minutes. C’mon Marcos. Let’s go eat some of those jelly tarts Callum had made earlier while I wait on him.”

Callum gave him another look, but he only tossed his hands into the air.

“You’re the worst,” he snarled, pushing back into his room.

“Five minutes.” She practically skipped down the hall towards his kitchen, Marcos trailing behind unhappily.

“Wait!” Cal called, but she didn’t stop. “How the heck do you know where my kitchen is!” She rolled her eyes, even if he couldn’t see her. “And don’t roll your eyes at me! I can _feel _you doing it.”

“Too late, already did.” She rounded the corner before he could say anything else.

It didn’t take much to convince Marcos to munch on the pastries with her. “He should never have texted me that these were made. He had to know I was going to come.”

“Yeah, but in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, spare me. It’s not like you aren’t used to late night action.”

“Uh, I’m not. _El Rey_’s estates are actually pretty quiet.”

Rayla laughed, mentally rubbing her hands together. “They weren’t a few nights ago. I’m surprised you guys aren’t on higher alert after those unsolved murders at the southern estate.”

He frowned at her shining eyes. “Oh, please. We know it was you. And _El Rey_ said when you were done with a job, you were done, so we have nothing to be particularly worried about. _La Sombra de Luna_ doesn’t linger.”

_Moonshadow._

It always caught her off guard when people called her that to her face. She didn’t mind it so much. It was hers, and she had worked her whole life to earn any sort of title that carried weight behind it. And, holy hell, did it mean something to all the _narcos_ and law enforcement. The underworld knew of her and respected her for it.

Damnit if that fact didn’t make her a little smug.

She took a sip of her water, nodding slowly. “A job is a job is a job. I don’t get anything out of trying to drag my hits out. Harrow isn’t mad?”

The guard waggled his head and gave a shrug. “Nah. _El Rey_ said it was just business. We’re all a bit annoyed because now we have spots that need to be filled again.”

_Expendable,_ she thought sadly. When one dies, replace it with another. Like cattle. It’s why everyone struggled so much with taking cartels down. There was an endless supply of people willing to do illegal things for the moola. And how could she even judge them for that?

She was sort of in the same boat.

Callum reappeared, giving her the stink eye. She knew he wasn’t going to drop it until she revealed her ultimate plot, but she wanted this to be a surprise.

“Rayla,” he said stiffly. Then He stuck out his hand expectantly. She couldn’t help the smile that broke out across her face as she placed a pastry in his hand. She loved bratty Callum. He didn’t appear often, but she also got a kick out of it. And his little fucking pout got to her _every _time.

Who gave him permission to be that cute? Because it definitely wasn’t her. Honestly, he could get away with murder if he wanted to. Not that he would need to. Any killing he wanted to be done, she’d be willing to do it. Free of charge, as much as it hurt her soul to do pro bono work.

“So what do you want?” He accepted the drink Marcos gave him without looking. “We’re good here. You can go whenever you decide,” he said, eyes trained instead on Ray the whole time.

“Sir,” Marcos said, bowing his head. He backed out of the room, and she raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Callum.

He was such a big baby when he first woke up.

“Just—Why? That’s all I want to know.”

She shook her head. “Nuh-uh. _Negativo_. To the garage!”

He grimaced but did as she said. She couldn’t help crooning, “Smart boy.”

Callum snarled back over his shoulder, “I’m not going to argue for ten minutes just to argue when I _know _you’re going to win anyways.”

“I don’t always win.”

“You do most of the time!”

And how was it her fault she was usually right? She considered pushing his buttons a bit further for entertainment purposes, but they had somewhere to be. “Well, that’s semantics. Garage. Now. We’re going to be late!”

He pursed his lips unhappily as he stomped through the compound. When he walked past the correct door, she grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Puzzlement colored his face. “I… I actually don’t know?” Wow, he was _really_ out of it. It made her relish what was to come.

“Alright, well, the garage is _this _way.”

Now the look he gave her was all sorts of funny. “Why do you know so much about my house?”

“You are so smart. One of the smartest people I have ever met. But, _fuck_, you are so dense.”

“Dense? About what?”

“Dude,” she sighed.

“No, no, no. Show me the receipts. Just one example.”

“Ugh, so oblivious.” She couldn’t help the peppering of disgust in her voice. How had he survived for so long? His dad was prime real estate for anyone looking to make money or establish themselves in the drug world. And Callum was caught up in that whole bloody mess by association. One day, he’d figure that out.

Or at least she could hope as much.

“Pick a car,” she said, licking the remnant jelly off her fingers. If the family chef ever had a hit on them, she’d totally murder whoever placed it. No way was she going to be denied jelly tarts. Now that she’d had a taste of them, she would never be able to return to her normal life.

Callum had ruined her.

_Ruined _her, damnit all to hell.

Him and his stupid fucking jelly tarts and stinking smile.

He proudly stood before a purple Lamborghini, and Rayla was a bit stuck on the color. “They—They don’t make purple cars,” she said slowly.

“Yup! I had it custom made. I got the color purple because it—” He cut himself off as red blossomed across his face. “Um, it’s my favorite color now. But we’re not talking about that!” His voice had definitely shot up a few octaves.

The car was the same color as her eyes. There was no denying it. He had literally gotten a car painted because her eyes were his favorite color. He was such a lovable dork. Was it… Was it possible that maybe he liked her, too?

_Stop_, she commanded herself. That was a dangerous thought process to spiral down upon, especially with the mechanical beauty in front of her. He said something else, but she was far too caught up in the beauty before her to pay his ramblings any mind.

“Callum…” Did he not understand how expensive custom Lambos were? Should she tell him?

“A-anyways, this is the new Goatagini my dad got me!”

Did—

Did he just—

_Did he really just—_

“What the fuck?” she deadpanned. This fool was really going to call his fucking Lambo a _Goatagini_? This couldn’t be real. This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare, really. She was so offended. How _dare _he insult— “What the fuck is wrong with you? Like, really.”

“What do you mean? It’s a Goatagini _abogado _or something. Wait, no! It’s a Goatagini Avocado SJW maybe?”

He really just tried to call his custom made Lambo a lawyer in Spanish. Her night was near ruined. Probably more ruined than his at this point. And he looked so _proud._ Oh, fuck. He was really trying, and it was vaguely cute but _come on_.

“That’s a fucking Lamborghini Aventador SVJ? That’s the fastest and most expensive car they have. We’re talking seven hundred _thousand _dollarinis. Only a few in existence as in, like, nine hundred. The SVJs are even rarer than regular Aventadors. _And you have one custom made_. And you can’t even be bothered to call it by it’s rightful name?” Her blood pressure had to be through the roof. This was too much. He was too much.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I backed up my Bruschetta into a pole the other day, and this is what Dad gave me while that one is getting fixed up in the shop.”

Maybe she’d just put a hit on herself to end her misery. How could he be like this? _Someone _had to stop him. “It’s called a _Bugatti_, holy shit. Bruschetta is a type of _bread_. I can’t believe you.”

“It’s all the same to me, honestly. They’re all pretty cars. Whether its SVJ, SJW, bruschetta, or avocados. If it looks nice, it’s nice. And that’s that.”

“Callum!” she chastised. She was pretty passionate about her cars, and his words were causing a physical pain.

“What?” He had the audacity to sound offended by her tone. He could rightfully fuck off. He had no right to be annoyed at her.

“I _was _going to take you drag racing, yet you can’t even be bothered to call a fucking Lambo a by its name. Where the _fuck_ did you get Goatagini from?”

“You know,” he said, waving his hand around. “Goat, lamb. They’re all the same thing.”

“Holy fuck,” she breathed in horror.

_This _was the son of the infamous _El Rey?_

She should’ve killed him when she had the chance. Now she was screwed.

“Anyways, I’d love to go drag racing finally! A _real _one, not a police car chase.”

“At least _this _car will have its VSA on.”

“It’s not _my _fault I accidentally turned off the vehicle stability assist. When are you going to let that go?” he huffed and crossed his arms.

Oh, sure. He was going to be little Mr. Attitude after calling his Lambo a goat. He could piss off. “When you learn your cars and their fucking value, you little fucking _punk_.”

He waggled his brows at her. “Not my fault I was born into money.” He tossed the keys at her. “Get in, loser. We’re going _shopping_!”

This night was getting worse and worse.

_But _she was about to just demolish everyone, particularly Janai if she was being honest, in one of the bigger drag races during the year.

Seven hundred and seventy horse power. Twelve cylinder engine. Zero to sixty miles per hour in 2.9 seconds. A hundred and seventy four miles per hour…

When all was said and done, the two of them were munching on a Whataburger breakfast on a bun. Nothing was better than breakfast so late at night it was considered morning. The exhilarated spark in Callum’s eye and his constant gushing about the whole experience was enough to make Rayla’s heart thump faster.

It didn’t help how much he showered her with compliments on her driving capabilities.

He may not know her cars, but, dangit it all, he did know _her_.

And that scared her down to her bones.

**5\. Of Within Reason**

As much as Rayla loved a good sword fight, she was impartial to her guns for a host of obvious reasons, most of which were work related. Callum didn’t really understand her love for all things lethal, but he was more of a pacifist at heart. She didn’t blame him, but it was annoying every time he pestered her about a gun or knife or any of her other array of weapons.

_Yes, Cal. I have a license to carry._

_No, Cal. It’s not illegal to have a gun in my car._

_Yes, Cal. I can openly carry my sword._

_No, Cal. I can’t legally use my brass knuckles._

The questions never ended, but at least she knew most of the laws about them to satisfy his curiosity. And he could be exasperatingly curious.

It was this never-ending curiosity, she decided, that led them to this predicament.

Her, staring at him. A gun raised between them.

Him, staring at her. Another gun raised at his head from his captor.

Callum had tried struggling against the mercenary, but he pointed his Sunforge blade at her with his free hand. Of course. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. He probably ran around with Janai then. Looked like it was Rayla’s lucky day then.

She got to fuck with her public enemy _numbero uno_.

“First of all,” she began, “You’re so fucking tacky. Do you use a curler for your mustache? Because that’s ridiculous.”

He paused a moment, off put by her comment. Then he snarled, shoving the barrel against Callum’s skull. “Listen here, _Luna_. I’m going to make you watch me blow your little boy toy’s brains out. And then you’re next.”

Callum’s eyes bulged, and he very shakily shook his head.

“You’re going to _try_, you little stupid merc. Here’s what going to happen,” she said as she mentally apologized to Callum. “I’m going to shoot him first. And then I’m going to shoot you. We all win in my head.”

“Shoot _me?_” Cal’s voice went up a few octaves, and she felt bad for wanting to laugh.

“I love you,” she said seriously.

“I… I love you, too. But why are you saying it like that?”

“Enough,” the merc roared, digging the knife into Callum’s jugular.

_Ah, fuck._ Rayla pulled the trigger. The slight kick back from the gun was welcomed and familiar. Damn, she loved her pistol.

Callum jerked away from the impact of the bullet, and the merc fell back from the second one she unleashed. Her boyfriend gave her the nastiest look she’d ever seen on his face. It was kind of impressive. And really attractive. Was she messed up for thinking that? Probably a little bit, but she liked what she liked.

“What the _fuck, _Ray?” he hollered, clutching at his arm.

Oof. He was _not _happy with her.

“’Within reason,’ remember?”

“Within—What are you talking about? You just _shot _me, and you’re saying ‘within reason’? That’s your grand explanation as to why there is a _bullet _in my arm? Am I supposed to be okay with this or something?”

“Listen here, you big baby,” she huffed, walking to the body behind him. She began to check for vital signs and any identification on him. “I only grazed your arm. No arteries or anything important was harmed in the making. It was either your arm or your head. You tell me which one you wanted to have the bullet in?” He sputtered a bit, making wild gestures. She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I just can’t believe you shot me. You said you’d never shoot me!”

“I said,” she intoned with infinite, false patience, “I would never willingly shoot you unless it was _within reason_.”

He pursed his lips, still unsatisfied with her answer. But she couldn’t care less. It was his life or a scar that would eventually fade on his bicep. To her, it really was no question or debate.

“I _suppose_ this was reasonable,” he bit out. “And I suppose you _did _tell me that before.”

“Good. I hope you’ve learned your lesson about tagging your location on Facebook.” Ah, yes. Ultimately, Callum’s inability to think things through led them to this situation. It _was _supposed to be a nice date at this new, obscure place that had piqued his interest. But _no_. He had to post it on Facebook for the whole world to see. What was his problem? There were clearly going to people monitoring his social media for this obvious reason.

“How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?”

“Oh, please. Don’t sound so offended. It takes an inkling of common sense to realize the dangers of putting your location on for the world to see! But I’m starting to realize even an _inkling _is too much for you sometimes.”

“Okay, that was rude.” She opened her mouth to cut him off, but he held up a hand. “_But_ you have a point.”

“That you don’t have common sense or that you shouldn’t be using your location on social media?”

“Rayla! I’m talking about the social media one.” He made a funky face at her. “I have common sense! Maybe not _all _the time, but it’s there!”

“Yeah, somewhere in there, I’m sure. Just gotta dig _real_ deep in that brain of yours.” She poked at his skull lightly. Now that all was said and done, she just found this amusing. It wasn’t the best way to look at it, considering they could’ve died. But she was the big, bad _sicario_. She wasn’t worried about either of them being taken down by some no name. Especially a no name with ties to Janai. As if. “Look, I know you love your Facebook. If it means that much to you, just post your activities _after _they’re done. It’s a lot safer that way.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.”

She stood up and went to his side, placing a hand on his uninjured arm. She tiptoed to give his nose a kiss, laughing at the way his eyes crossed when trying to look at her. “I’m always right. Don’t look at yourself. There’s a lot of blood, and I’m _not _carrying you to the car.”

“Blood?” His voice wavered, but she had already entwined their fingers, tugging him along.

“It’s nothing the family doctor can’t fix,” she sang back.

“Opeli’s going to kill us,” he mumbled. She was never happy when Rayla and Callum came to her with these sorts of injuries. Thankfully, it had never been Callum before because he was a lucky son of a gun. Rayla knew they were in for a treat. Opeli was a little crazy protective over the heir, but she couldn’t really blame her. Cal’s net worth was significant when considering the future. He was, after all, supposed to take over Harrow’s business with Ezran.

Rayla frowned. “Ah, fuck. She’s going to give us an earful alright.”

But she would take hours, _months_, of Opeli lectures if it meant Callum was safe.

Still didn’t mean she’d enjoy it.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu
> 
> also would just like to know that the fighting scene of 7 is based off an actual standoff between myself and an arachnid. Did I mention I am deathly scared of wolf spiders irl? Whoops.

**6\. Of Purposeful Meetings**

A lot of the run-ins Rayla had with _El Rey’s _son were purposeful. However, even more of them strangely _weren’t_. He just… Sort of appeared everywhere she went.

Banther lodge? That motherfucker took the last chocolate mousse cake. She would’ve killed him them, but there were far too many witnesses. So she settled on sending him murder vibes as best she could from across the restaurant. Judging by the way he scurried out, he’d gotten the message. Loud and clear.

Late night grocery run? He was silently judging her chip choice of Takis, but who was he to do so? _He _was the one with the cart practically overflowing with ramen. And not the fancy ramen bowls. No, it was _all_ Maruchan brand. For Katolis’ kingpin _narco _successor, she definitely expected better. She would’ve killed him then, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Her ice cream options. White chocolate raspberry truffle or pistachio? Actually, it was a stupid debate. The answer was glaringly obvious. Duh, take both.

Mall visit to collect some of her hit money? She always stopped at the book store to wind down for a few hours. They had a nice café connected, and she needed to brush up on her dangerous botany knowledge. Then in came _El Rey’s_ eventual inheritor, clutching part three of the Avatar: the Last Airbender: Smoke and Shadow comics. Fuck, he was a nerd. But a nerd that spoke her language of _fandom_. She would’ve killed him then, too. But she was wearing her favorite white leather jacket, and she wasn’t about to risk any sort of bodily fluids getting on it.

Discount Day at the dollar movies? He came fumbling in, bull in a china shop style. The crinkling of him constantly opening different snacks was the worst. She just wanted to enjoy the movie, but he was crunching so loud, she practically felt the vibrations around her. Fuck, if looks could kill, he’d be dead a hundred times over. She would’ve killed him because that noise was driving her insane. But she was curious to see if he’d choke on anything because of how fast and sloppily he was eating. Maybe he’d save her the effort of actually having to murder him, but no such luck. Oh, well. There was always next time.

Greneral’s Comics and More? She was happily minding her own business when the dork came in for game night. She couldn’t remember, but she thought it was Dungeons and Dragons tonight. She bet he ran as a mage during campaigns. A _loud _one at that if his hollering from across the shop was any indication. Holy fuck. _Nobody _liked a loud mage. That would’ve been prime time for his untimely death, but she was in the middle of painting her ork gargantuan Squiggoth. She’d been working on this Warhammer figurine for months, and the owner of the shop, Gren, had finally stocked in the last color she needed to complete it. No hit was getting in the way of her finishing. Not tonight.

Then there was the run-in at Moonstone Path Café. He’d finally grown a pair and approached her. She was wondering how long it would take him to notice her following him around. But she didn’t have time to chat. She had a hit to do in a few hours, so she wasn’t inclined to stay and chat to the bumbling _narco _prince. But she tossed whatever bills she had left in her wallet. It was her way of promising that their next meeting would be intentional.

And intentional it was.

She knew Callum spent most of his Monday nights at Moonstone Path Café. They had two for one drinks, and what college student was immune to that? The drink shop had their demographics down hook, line, and sinker. She usually avoided the place because of how crowded it got, but she had come to realize Callum liked noise. It was one of the things that made it so hard for her to do anything remotely _sicario_ to him. He was just a loner who loved people and who, unknowingly, loved making her job harder.

She slid into the booth seat across him as he dug around his backpack for his wallet. It was a few beats before he acknowledged her. Even then, it had been because he was preparing to leave the table. He hadn’t noticed she was there despite the fact that she had made the conscious effort to make noise. He was hopeless. She had expected better of the King’s son but was no longer surprised after having trailed him for so many weeks.

“Yo,” she deadpanned.

He clutched his wallet to his chest, eyes wide. She’d caught him off guard.

Good.

“H-Hi. Rayla, right?”

She raised an eyebrow and nodded, mildly impressed he had remembered. He was a bit scatterbrained and bad with names from what she’d observed. She liked the way her name rolled off his tongue, scared and curious and horrified and awed all at once.

He wasn’t the most aware person on the planet, but he was brave. She’d give him at least that. It was obvious with his body language that instinctually he knew she was dangerous, even if he wasn’t consciously cognizant of it.

He offered her a tentative smile, as if afraid of scaring her off. Ah, that was cute. Her, scared? Of _him_? The notion was laughable. “It looks like both of my wishes came true,” he mused softly, pulling out the crumpled money she’d handed him. She could tell by the slight pen stains on the left corner of the bills. “But you never told me what yours was?”

She gave a cutting smile, and his eyes widened. _Be afraid, little prince. I’ll eat you up and spit out the bones if you aren’t careful._ “No, I suppose I didn’t.”

His hands trembled ever so slightly as he clutched the money tighter. “And I’m guessing you won’t.”

“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘p’. She reached across the table and pulled out the pen from his front pocket. He remained silent, watching as she twirled her new possession between fingers adorned with rings. She jerked her head towards the ordering counter. “Be a doll and buy my drink. You know what I like.”

Her gaze zeroed in on his Adam’s apple bobbing. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his tongue darted out to lick dry lips.

He was so weak. _But intriguing_.

The though crossed her mind, unbidden. Anger bubbled within her stomach. As _if_ anything about a whining _narco_ brat would pique her interest. She mentally scoffed, turning to look out the window as he tried to decide what to get.

“I’ll be back,” he said uncertainly. As he stood in line, his eyes constantly flitted to their table. As if afraid she would disappear into the night. She had half the mind to do so. There was no reason for her to be actively engaging her next hit.

He was going to be dead soon enough anyways.

He came back with the drinks, fingers brushing against hers as he handed the matcha latte to her. He jerked back, accidentally spilling some of his iced coffee onto his shirt. “Dang,” he mumbled, swatting at the damp spot with napkins procured from one of his pant pockets. She took a sip of her drink to hide her amusement’s manifestation of a small smile.

As Callum fumbled around, trying to get situated, she looked at her watch and noted the time.

_11:11 PM._

Should she make a wish? Last time, it had worked. She was embarrassed for having even thought it, but it had happened all the same. She would never tell him the truth, but…

She’d wished the little weirdo would come up to her that night, and he had. Against all odds, the lamb had willingly approached the slaughter.

The seconds were winding down. She was running out of time.

_Ah, fuck it._

“Rayla, it’s eleven-eleven again. Make a wish! We only have ten seconds left!”

_I wish—_

**7\. Of Wolf Spider**

Rayla was a bit of an insomniac, but she liked to blame that on her occupation. Being a hitwoman was no walk in the park, especially when working for a company like Star Boy’s. Aaravos was on his own level of _everything_, and she wanted almost nothing to do with that. She used to, but things changed when Callum came around. Now she was somewhat of an honorary member to _El Rey’s_ cartel, long since refusing to take hits on any of Harrow’s posse.

She poured herself the first thing she grabbed from the fridge and giggled a bit senselessly as the moonlight hit the crimson liquid. “It’s _moonberry _juice_,_” she whispered to herself reverently. She was known to get a little loopy when lacking a functional amount of sleep.

As she was about to take a sip, she noticed something move from the corner of her eye. Her insides froze, and she dropped her cup. The plastic container bounced, spilling the red juice all over her and the floor. But she didn’t care. Her attention was on something else entirely.

_“Holy fuck,_” she breathed, tears filling her eyes.

It was a fucking wolf spider on her ceiling.

Callum was asleep, and the arachnid currently stood between her and the bedroom. She wouldn’t be able to get to him in time. What if it disappeared? Then she’d _really _be fucked. Goodbye sleep, hello eternal state of paranoia.

She had no choice. She _had _to kill the thing.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” She could barely walk to the broom to her left. She was far too shaky, and tears threatened to fall. “You gotta do this,” she told herself as sternly as possible.

It was the spider’s life or hers. And she wasn’t about to move out of the apartment she’d _just _moved into. She loved the place, and she loved living with Callum even more. No spider was about to get in the way of her happiness.

She gripped the broom. Trying, and miserably failing, to calm her rapid breathing. She was on the verge of a panic attack. _It’s cool. Just a casual late night._

She smacked at the ceiling with the bristles of the broom, horrified to see the spider wasn’t fazed. It began to rapidly crawl at her, and she couldn’t help her shrieking. She continually smacked at it, stopping when she noticed it was no longer above her. Had she killed it?

Then she looked down to find it was crawling up her broom.

“Fuck,” she screamed, slapping the broom against the floor. The spider landed and once more began to advance upon her. “Why don’t you just _fucking die_!” She slammed the bristles upon it again and again, hollering the whole time. Obscenities and nonsense at the top of her lungs. Even when it was clearly dead, she kept on, watching as tiny spider legs flew left and right.

Holy fuck, she was a monster.

But she had to be sure. She _had _to. For Callum’s safety and the safety of everyone in the building. She was protecting them. Fuck, she should be awarded for having killed the thing. She finally released her death grip on the broom, and it clattered to the floor. Looking over at it, she noticed it had actually been broken in half.

“Oops. Can’t believe a spider did that to my broom,” she sighed. It was a good thing they had another one.

As she stood amongst the mess that was a testament to her battle, chest heaving and sweat dripping, Cal appeared in the doorway.

“Rayla, what the _fuck_?”

She couldn’t speak but pointed at the remains of her adversary. Surely her boyfriend would understand the mental and physical anguish she had just been through.

“Argh, my love. A spider? Really?”

She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. This shit was scarring.

“Did you really have to hit it so many times?” he cringed. Again, she nodded. He looked at her, and his expression changed as he noticed her face. “Hey, hey, hey! It’s okay, Ray. Don’t cry.” He hurried over to her, and she tossed her arms around him.

She buried her face into his shoulder, distantly noting just how perfectly she fit against him. His arms wrapped around her. She found herself consumed by his heat, and her breathing _finally_ began to slow. It was then she noticed how sticky she felt but was distracted once more as his hands gently rubbed circles into her back.

“It’s alright. My big, bad _sicario_. Look at you, actually killing spiders! Why didn’t you wake me?” his chest rumbled with every word against hers, and she sunk further into him. Wow, she hadn’t thought that was possible. Maybe if she clung on a little tighter, she’d just become part of him and him a part of her. Now wasn’t that a thought?

“He was guarding the hallway to the room,” she admitted hoarsely.

“Ah, I’m so sorry. Call or yell at me next time, alright? I’ll wake up. Damn, I thought you were being murdered.”

She slid her hand down from his neck and to his chest, right above his heart. It was pounding almost as hard as her own.

“I thought I was _going _to be murdered,” she admitted sulkily, and he laughed. The sound comforted her, echoed and reminded her to come back from the clouds.

Callum was with her, and, suddenly, all was well.

She pulled back slightly, tilting her head up to gaze at him. He gave her a lopsided smile, and she realized she was _home_.

_He _was home.

She moved to her tiptoes to kiss him, and their lips brushed for the barest of moments before violent knocking surprised both of them. They separated rapidly, but he latched onto her hand. They moved to the front, opening the door.

“Police,” one of the two officers greeted them. “We’ve received multiple calls regarding a possible murder in progress?”

Rayla glanced over at Callum. He seemed just as perplexed as she was. “Yeah, what about it?” she said, confusion coloring her voice.

“I’m sorry?” the officer said, and Rayla’s mind finally caught up with her.

“Oh, wait, no! I’m sorry, that came out so wrong.” That sticky feeling was back, and she looked down at herself. She was covered in red, and there was a trail of juice leading into a kitchen.

Fuck, this looked _so _bad. And Cal was also plastered with her ‘moonberry juice’ from their embrace. How was she going to admit to these officers that she wasn’t being murdered, but actually killing a spider? Omega fucking yikes.

“Um, well…” she cringed, rubbing her arm awkwardly with her free hand. “I just _really_ fucking hate spiders.”

**8\. Of Literal Champion Sewing**

Rayla was decidedly a night owl aside from her insomniac tendencies. She loved working at night and loved simply basking in the moon’s shadow even more. It was something about the serenity, the mystery and slightest fear of the unknown hidden in the dark. There was, however, one problem to her late night tendencies.

Her schedule grossly conflicted with Callum’s.

He was more of a midday person. And, above all, he held his beauty sleep in high regard. Honestly, Callum on a less than optimal amount of sleep was the scariest Callum there was. No filter, grumpy grunts, and a lot of sassy side eye. She found it endearing, but she also knew he’d kill her for even entertaining that thought.

Still, she respected his opinions, regardless of how incorrect they were.

_“It’s okay to be wrong,” _she was fond of telling him.

With conflicting circadian rhythms, she found it difficult to get into the groove of living with him. She wouldn’t say it was awful. Quite the opposite, actually. Things he left for later were done by her, and vice versa. And she very much loved having someone to come home to. A bed already warmed and primed by Callum’s sleeping form. She didn’t have to deal with him getting comfortable or funky pillow talk most days. In some ways, it worked out beautifully.

But she could recognize some days they missed out on spending time together a bit more than she cared to admit. The taboo word _clingy_ vaguely came to mind, but she wasn’t privy to it. It wasn’t exactly the most appropriate descriptor. There was a certain amount of attention that she wanted and should be given. There was nothing unhealthy about wanting recognition from someone she cared about. She was independent, sometimes to a fault. But she also loved the guy and the way his eyes would scan across her in an almost subconscious interest.

And right now, she desperately needed those jade eyeballs of his to look at her in a very _conscious_ manner.

“Lover Boy,” she moaned. “I need you to get up. Like _now_.”

“Rayla,” he grumbled into the pillows. “You’re wonderful and all, but I’m not about to get wrapped up in some monkey business with you right now. I’m _sleeping_.”

“Don’t snarl at me,” she continued breathily. “Seriously, up.”

“And I’m serious, too. I’m not a horndog like you.”

“For fuck’s sake, dude. I’m fucking bleeding out. As in I’m not going to make it to Opeli to patch me up if you don’t get up right. The. Fuck. _Now_. And sew me up temporarily.”

He immediately shot up, blinking up at hear blearily. “Blood?” His voice wavered, but any sympathy she had for him had gone out the window with his horndog comment. _He _was the one with the weinerschnitzel, not her.

He needed to put on a big boy bun on his weinerschnitzel and sew her up.

ASA-fucking-P.

Her patience was at an all-time low as was her blood pressure.

“O-okay,” he wheezed, jerking out of bed and hurriedly into the restroom. She trailed after him closely, clutching at the two shots to her abdomen in one hand and the wound above her chest in the other hand.

“So I’ve got some bad news.”

“As if you _literally _bleeding out isn’t bad news?” Ah, there was the panic. Always gave her a kick when his voice hiked up that high.

“Honestly, my biggest concern is how much of a bitch all the blood is going to be to get out of my clothes and the carpet. Fuck me,” she spat, just thinking of all the intense scrubbing that was waiting for her. “I love this shirt.”

“Okay, that’s great and all,” he snapped sarcastically. “But what could be worse than—”

“You’re going have to fish two of the bullets out.” She tried not to let her voice waver. She wasn’t exactly afraid of dying. Truly, the only thing about her death that made her scared was how Callum would handle it. Right now, though, she was more fearful of him fucking this up and then passing out on her. This was a slippery slope, and he needed to get a hold of himself. “My hands are too scratched up to be of any use to you,” she continued apologetically. “I’m not even sure if I’ll be awake much longer.” The edges of her vision were getting fuzzy and the pounding against her head was getting greater with every passing moment.

He swallowed thickly over and over, clearly forcing bile back down. “I got this,” he whispered, but the slight gags that kept peeping out told her otherwise.

“Cal? Callum? _Callum,_” she snapped. “Look at—_No_. Look at me.” She put her bloodied hands against his cheeks, pulling his head up to meet her gaze. Probably not the smartest thing to do to someone queasy around blood, but she wasn’t in the greatest state of mind. “I’m going to need you to seriously balls-to-the-wall this. We’ve gotten lucky every time that we could make it to Opeli or Claud, but that’s not a valid option right now. I’ve seen those dragons you’ve knitted. You can _do _this.”

“Oh, God,” he wheezed.

“It doesn’t have to be pretty,” she promised. “I can handle whatever you throw at me. Don’t be gentle. I just—We need to— To—” It was getting harder and harder to speak. “Callum,” she breathed before the world went black.

When she came to, she knew right away she was in _El Rey’s _estate. Opeli was looking at some papers on her clipboard, tapping a pen against her lip idly. The monitor, presumably attached to Rayla, changed its rhythm, and the family doctor looked up.

“Nice to see you’ve finally woken up, _Luna_.”

Rayla nearly rolled her eyes at the exasperation exhibited in her street name. As per usual, Opeli seemed rather unhappy to have met with her in this injured state. Not that she could blame her. The worry was valid. It had long since been established that Opeli loved both Rayla and Callum like her own, and their constant injuries were a pain to deal with.

“How be, Peli?” Her eye twitched at that, and Rayla couldn’t help the pained laugh that escaped. “That bad, huh, Doc.”

“Worse than that. I don’t even know how Callum managed to drive all the way over here with you. He seemed more dead than you were.”

Rayla rubbed her eyes. _Shit._ She’d forgotten that awful predicament she’d left Callum in. She debated apologizing, but she wasn’t really sorry. Work was work, and this was just another bullet in her job description.

No pun intended.

“And Cal?”

“Fine now. Probably waiting for me to let him in. Are you feeling alright enough for visitors?”

She thought about it for a moment. _No, not really_. Everything was tender and achy. The light was too harsh, and the sounds around her were blaring. She wanted nothing more than to go back under with the sweet embrace of narcotics.

“What did you give me?”

Opeli pinned her with a dark look, and Rayla couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. “I’m assuming you found all the other bullets and grazes and cuts. That means fentanyl,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Only the best for you.” The doctor was not amused.

“_You _are the best.”

“Maybe next time be a bit more careful, yes?”

Rayla barked out a laugh. “Ah, Doc. You should see the other dumbasses. You think _I _look bad? At least I’m still breathing. And no black eye.”

“Janai?”

“Who else? Her cronies this time, though. Fucking annoying little gnats. But most of them are gone now. Only a matter of time before she builds up again. Stupid Sunfires.”

“Rayla,” Opeli sighed, “I’m not about to give you the lecture right now—”

“I know the lack of chastisement is killing you inside, so I appreciate the effort you’re making.”

She rolled her eyes and continued, “But you’re not off the hook yet. I know how you work. This was pure recklessness.”

She shrugged. Opeli wasn’t _wrong_, but every girl needs to let off a little bit of steam now and then. She was an adrenaline junkie at heart. And what was more adrenaline-inducing than going John Wick on a bunch of assholes? Seriously, if she’d had a dog, there was no doubt in her mind that they would’ve tried to murder it by now.

The monsters.

“I just gave you your next dose, so you only have a few minutes. I’m sending Callum in,” Opeli called over her shoulder.

He came in, and he really did look arguably worse than she.

“There’s no need for the long face, Lover Boy,” she soothed, lifting her arm that weighed about a hundred pounds that moment. He gripped her hand. Judging by the white knuckles, he was holding on pretty tightly, but she barely felt it. “It’s alright, I’m here.”

“I just—” He shook his head.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“I messed up, Ray. I kept stabbing at you and the stitches look so _awful_. I’m so sorry I hurt you like that. I didn’t mean to—”

“Woah there,” she said, room spinning slightly. “What part of _saved my life _don’t you get? Besides, I always liked messy stitches. And I welcome those stabby scars. Reminders of you all across my body.” She waggled her eyebrows.

He rubbed a hand across his face. “Now I _know _that’s the medicine talking.”

_It’s no wonder he won all those knitting competitions, _the stray thought shot across her mind as her fingers surreptitiously stroked the fucked up stitching Opeli had yet to get through.

“Love you,” she slurred as he gently leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“Love you, too,” he breathed, burying his face into her neck, seeking comfort only her steady heartbeat could provide.


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( I feel like this is the end of an era. I don't want to leave my sicario!AU babies behind...  
Who knows, maybe I won't? ;)  
Maybe, one day, very far in the future, we'll get the gritty sicario!AU we didn't want.
> 
> BUT, for now, enjoy the fluff and feelings fest that is Rayla's POV of the Big, Bad Sicario Anthology. Thank you so much for tagging along with me <3 Your support always pushes me to do better!  
And, as always, thank you porsche for everything lul.
> 
> also, as an aside, anyone get the reference to the title of 9? Kudos to you if you do ;3c

**9\. Of PanicBasket**

There were few things in the world that could cause Rayla to panic.

Spiders of the extra-large variance.

Cockroaches, particularly if they had wings to explore the world.

Water so deep it was practically being adrift in the void of space.

In situations outside of her inherent fears, she was always in control. At the very least, she was in control of herself. She was the calm one. She was the voice of reason. She was the one that approached waiters and waitresses regarding meal fuck ups because it was a given Callum wouldn’t. She was the one to lay down the law fearlessly because how else would you do it?

Yet, the more time she spent with Callum, the more she realized maybe she had more fears that led to panic than anticipated.

She thought he was dying.

The first time, and probably the second and third time, he’d ever had a panic attack in her presence. It was horrifying and disorienting. Callum always told her afterwards that he wasn’t surprised she thought he was dying. He’d thought the same for years.

It was never clear to her what had triggered it. They were at her place, putting off the school work as any responsible college student would. She was teetering on the edge of what she instinctively _knew _was going to be a great fucking nap.

And then came the breathing.

Gasping.

Dying?

Had someone somehow managed to poison him while under her watch? In her own _home?_ She would never forgive herself if—But now was not the time to think about that. There were other pressing matters at hand to attend to.

She sat up, the world spinning and bleary. Her body weighed a thousand tons and more, but she made her way onto the floor with him. He was on all fours, heaving. Gagging. He wasn’t breathing. _Oh, fuck. He’s not breathing!_ She called out his name, but he wasn’t listening either.

What to do, what to do? Panic was flooding her system, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d end up in the exact same position as him. _Just breathe, _she reminded herself, and she hid behind her rock solid façade.

She was _La Sombra de Luna_ for fuck’s sake. She _had _this in the bag.

“Breathe, Cal,” she said, rubbing a hand against his back in what she hoped were comforting circles. Could he tell she was shaking? It didn’t matter. “Listen to my voice. I’m right here.” But his wheezing only got worse.

_Shit._

“Callum,” she said, raising her voice. She crawled to kneel before him, running her fingers through his hair, ignoring the sweat. She’d touched way worse bodily fluid in her days. She was far from squeamish, thankfully. “_Breathe_,” she insisted. “Tell me what you feel. Physically.”

A shaky hand found its way onto her bicep. “_You,_” he barely choked out. “I just feel _you_.”

Alright, not a bad start. “Okay, okay. That’s good! Wh-What do you feel me doing?”

“Y-Your hands. In my hair. I—I _can’t, _Ray—”

“Hey, shh. It’s alright. Keep breathing. Yeah, just like that. There you go,” she murmured. “Come back to me. What do you smell?”

“Wax.”

“What kind of wax?” _Keep talking to me. Focus on me,_ she willed him.

“Y-Your melty wax thingies.” His fingers dug into her skin, as if seeking to leach her warmth. He could take it all if it meant he was okay. It was just shy of painful but the reminder that he was still with her soothed the inevitable aching.

“Good, good. What scent is it?”

“Um… _Fuck_, Ray. I don’t know, _I don’t know_!”

“Hey, hey. That’s okay, I don’t mind. What, um, what does it remind you of?” Was she doing this right? It felt like they had been here an eternity. Her gathering her thoughts, his scrambling to collect a semblance of his. Were they going to die on the floor together? Because if he went, she was probably close behind. They’d shared all the same food, so if he had been poisoned…

“It reminds me of… Of you,” he choked out. “The linen or rainwater scent, I think.”

“Yes, the rain scent!” This was progress. She wanted to pump a hand into the air or something. They were going to be alright. Weren’t they? “What do you hear?”

“You.”

“What do you see?”

He lifted his head, chest still heaving. “You. It’s always you.” The words came out in a rush, sounding more like one word than a statement. He pushed his forehead against her shoulder, just barely nuzzling into it. She stayed frozen a moment, afraid to crowd him or startle him. After a moment of hesitation, she placed a hand gently against the one he had clutching at the carpet. Ginger strokes against the whitened knuckles.

“I’m here.” She said it so quietly, she wondered if the words had been thought or actually spoken. His nod was barely there, yet it was enough. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed in that position. Eons, probably. Eventually, she shifted to lean against the couch, pulling him down to lay across her lap. He complied easily, and his zombie-like malleability worried her. He turned his head into her legs, deep sigh escaping.

“I meant what I said.”

“Huh?” she glanced down to find him staring intently at her.

“It’s always you.”

She swallowed thickly. She was having _feelings _and was in no position to unpack them right now. All she wanted was for them to take a nap and leave it all behind. But, no. They were both in vulnerable positions, and she owed it to him to be honest.

“It’s… It’s always you, too.”

He nodded into the skin above her knee. “Thank you, Rayla. You don’t understand how much you mean to me.”

Her smile was small, stuck between amusement and sadness. Sure, he’d ruined her old life. But he’d also help her build this new, and admittedly improved, one. “I think I have a bit of an idea.”

He made a noncommittal sound, and she thought that would be the end of it. Nap time?

“Let’s go get something to eat,” he said suddenly, just as she’d been beginning to drift off again. She nodded. As they left the apartment, his hand found his way into her own, tightening at her quick look over.

He never let go.

**10\. Of Braids**

“For fuck’s _sake_,” Rayla howled as her hair blew into her face once more. “I’m going to chop this whole fucking thing off. Baldo Rayla incoming,” she vowed to an amused Callum, tugging at the silvery strands. Anger and frustration continuously mounted.

“Your long hair looks really nice, though! An interesting change from your other style. I’m glad you grew it out.”

“There is a _reason_ I kept it mid length. Look, movies get a lot of shit wrong. But one of the biggest cinema sins _must_ be that trope of women fighting with their hair loose. It’s utter bullshit. No one looks good flailing around. And it just makes you an easier target. Gives your enemies something to hold onto. Blegh, fuck it. I’m Cutting it all off. Right now.” She got up from the dinner table, stomping into the kitchen. She spoke over her shoulder. “Not to mention I shed worse than anything. My hair is literally _everywhere_. That’s my DNA, Lover Boy. Worst of all? It gets in my _food_,” she shuddered.

She rummaged around her drawers in search of the shears. She found one of the many pairs that were scattered about the house, triumphant smile spreading.

“Hold on a sec,” Callum said from behind her. She turned to face him. Leaned against the countertop, eyebrow raised. Waiting. “You’ve been growing out your mane for almost two years,” he reminded her earnestly.

“Did you just call my hair a fucking _mane_?” she snarled. She was fixing to use the scissors for something else entirely now. He still had a hefty bounty on his head, and she was never one to shy away from side cash.

He ignored her, continuing, “After all that hard work, you should at least try to style it before making any rash decisions.”

She barked a laugh, raising the shears to her head threateningly. “Try me, bitch.”

He rolled his eyes and held out a hand for her to take. “Stop being so dramatic for a second. C’mere.” He led her over to the couch, pointed ignoring the stomping noises she was making.

“Who is the dramatic one?” she muttered sulkily, a statement he also blatantly ignored.

He sat her down sideways, so her arm rested against the back of the couch instead of her back. Then he settled down behind her. “Just relax for a minute,” he muttered, beginning to comb through her hair. Of course, she immediately tensed up, frowning. “Ray, your shoulders,” he said, tapping one gently. “_Relajate.”_

She slumped a bit, trying not to snicker at his accent. It was adorable, really. Every time he spoke Spanish, broken as his was, it sent a wave of warmth through her. She reached back, squeezing his leg. He was a dork and she was the poor fool sucked in by it.

His fingers went through her hair with relative ease. She’d just brushed it after her shower about two hours earlier. “Your hair is so soft,” he mumbled, almost an aside.

“Thanks,” she deadpanned. “I wash it.”

She could _feel_ him rolling his eyes. “Alright, Miss Snarky. Whatever you say.”

Much as she enjoyed him playing with her hair, she was beginning to get fidgety again. There were a million and ten other things she could have been doing. Like the dishes. Or looking through her endlessly pinging cellphone. A load of laundry. Finish that hit she had on some Fen guy. Look through the hit board. Go get some ice cream. Bitch at a colleague or two.

But, no. She was still as a statue, unsure of how to wiggle her way away from Callum. Maybe she could just kind of slide off the couch? She waited a few beats, but before her plan could come to fruition, the feeling on her head changed. There was a more persistent tugging how. Strands moving away from her face. Was he…?

“Are you… Are you braiding my hair?” She failed to keep the disbelief from her voice.

He snorted, yanking a bit more roughly on a captured chunk of hair. “Be nice. And yes, I am.”

“Where the hell did you learn how to do that? Because I know that isn’t a basic bitch braid.” The pulling on her hair was different than the ones she would quickly, and admittedly messily, did.

“I’m just doing a fishtail braid for now. But I learned how to do a bunch of them a while back.”

_What?_ “And when did this happen?” Her interest was considerably piqued. Just when she thought there was nothing left to learn, he dropped all sorts of bombs on her.

“Well, I realized braiding was a lot like knitting, and if I was careful enough, I could incorporate different types of textures into the things I knitted.”

He was an artist and a knitter. Be still her beating heart. Zero sarcasm despite how the phrase was generally coded.

He was a nerd to the core, and damnit if she wasn’t completely enamored by the fact.

“You’re an enigma,” she said under her breath. He leaned forward, his own breath causing some of her hair to stir. Shivers scuttled down her spine.

“What was that?”

Fuck, she could feel herself flushing. “N-Nothing. Just do your thing.”

“Mhm,” he hummed suspiciously. Had his voice just dropped a few octaves? Where was a fan when she needed one?

She squeezed his knee again, but this time there was a little something more to it. His ensuing laughter was soft honey, pouring across her skin. She was caught in his trap, and if the way his lips brushed against her neck was any indication, he was ensnared in hers.

“Lover Boy,” she warned as his nail just barely scraped her the tip of her very sensitive ear.

“Yes, Ray?” Oh, the fucker was feigning innocence now?

“Fuck you,” she hissed.

“That may or may not be the goal. Now, quit fidgeting. I’m focusing, and you are not helping any.”

_Cheeky. _

Why hadn’t she killed him again?

His lips pressed into her exposed shoulder, and she realized the list of reasons was getting longer and longer the more time they spent together.

And near the top of the list _definitely _was absolutely _not_ the way his touch represented another language. A primal language that transcended differences and offered a glimpse into things unsaid but felt. A variety of expressions transcribed, skin to skin.

An innocence. A longing. A reassuring. A warning. A confirmation.

An invitation.

She dug her nails into his leg. She felt his smile spread against her.

_This _was an invitation she was going to accept.

**11\. Of My Deer**

Callum hated driving. He hated driving at night _even more_. Especially in anything other than clear weather. Rayla knew this and was constantly aware of it. How could she not be with his relentless griping? She _liked_ driving, so things usually worked out.

There was one problem. She’d been placed in a cast for the next six weeks. In a moment of stupidity, her hit had gotten the upper hand quite literally. Her tibia was totally fucked, and so was her routine. She’d probably put a bullet or twelve too many into the body, but her injury had really pissed her off.

If she’d been a bit more careful, they wouldn’t be on the side of the road with Callum’s hyperventilating as the only thing to break the silence.

“Are you done?” she asked, unimpressed. She was cold, achy, and just wanted to be home. The Christmas party they went too had gone on for far too long with far too many people, so her patience was bordering none. Sure, this was a slightly horrifying experience and all, but they had places to be. Namely, the bed. Asleep. _Cozy_.

“I almost hit a _deer,_” he screeched. “What do you mean ‘am I done’?”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” She examined her cuticles, uninterested but wanting something to do besides watching Lover Boy’s meltdown. She knew he was a tree hugger and an even bigger animal hugger, but this was just excessive. He needed to take a chill pill or ten. “We’ve been out here for fifteen fucking minutes, dude. I’m about to just drive us back with my cast.”

“I’m a monster,” he wailed.

“Okay, okay. That’s enough of that, _Señor_ Monster. Get in the car. No, stop. Cal, _stop._ You’re not going to throw up. Enough with the gagging. You’re getting in the car. There you go.” She shoved him to the passenger’s side and clambered into the driver’s seat, knowing it was bad idea. But she was done waiting on him. Cast be damned. She was _still_ a better driver injured than he was at optimal health.

He eventually quieted down, music from the radio softer than usual. “You know,” he began slowly, “The thought of killing people on purpose is actually less scary than the thought of killing a deer on accident,” he admitted.

_Uh, what?_

She cleared her throat, nodding slowly. “I see.” She didn’t really, but he didn’t need to know that. The silence stretched once more, borderline uncomfortable. “Well, I’m scared by the thought that I wouldn’t actually kill someone.”

“That’s your job though.” He scratched his head, turning to look at her profile. “Come again?”

“I… I’ve always completed my missions. No amount of time or crying from anyone changed that. Pleading with me, bargaining… None of it matters. A job is a job is a job, and I can’t rest until mine is completed. It’s just the way that I am.”

“But you didn’t kill me?”

“I _chose _not to kill you. Sometimes, I don’t think you get that. I don’t think you understand the implications of my decision and just how much my relationship with you has changed my world. From the moment you thought Soren had hired me to freak you out, things for me have never been the same.”

“Ray…”

“You are the only person I have ever failed to kill, Callum.” The words hung between them, a bit awkward. She turned the music up on instinct, hating the weird silence that had built inside the car. But he leaned forward and tapped it off completely.

“Rayla,” he said, waiting for her to look over at him once the hit the stoplight. “I would mass slaughter at _least _a hundred deer for you.”

She furrowed her brow, processing the statement. He was dead serious and earnest, placing a hand on her knee, digging his nails gently into it. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but he had just admitted that killing deer scared him more than killing people. He was making a statement, reciprocating her underhanded admission of loyalty and care with one of his own.

“I—” she took a deep, steadying breath. They came from two completely different worlds, despite how intrinsically tied they were to one another. He was trying his best, and she would be an idiot to not recognize as much. “Thank you.”

“I think,” he began slowly, “You forget how much _your_ involvement in my life upset my own little world. Honestly, I still don’t think I would’ve found out that my dad was a _narco_ by now. I think… Maybe I wasn’t really _alive. _Or, I don’t know. It’s whatever.” She watched his profile, glowing red in the dim light from the dashboard. It wasn’t often he got flustered like this. He cleared his throat. “All I’m saying, I guess, is thank you for not killing me.”

“Mm,” she hummed. She didn’t really know who she’d be anymore without him, and that was scary. Who she was as a whole hadn’t necessarily changed, but he had definitely helped her be more human. Everything Runaan and Aaravos had tried to squash within her had hybridized. And, in some ways, that made her more dangerous.

Before, she’d only been living for herself.

Before, there were no personal collaterals.

Now, other people were involved.

_Now_, she had something to lose.

There was no telling the lengths she would go to protect this new life she had found herself in the midst of.

She inhaled deeply, opening and closing her mouth several times. How could she convey that to him properly?

“Don’t,” Callum finally interjected. “You don’t need to say anything.” She snapped her gaze to meet his, shifting the gears into park. How did he expect her to remain silent? There was so much to say. “Your face, the way you’re looking at me…” He trailed off, lifting a slightly trembling hand to her cheek. He gently stroked the chilled skin, and tears unexpectedly sprang up. “It speaks in ways words never could.” His smile was crooked and small and tinged with a strange sort of sadness she couldn’t place. He leaned forward and her lids slid shut in expectation.

His lips against her nose startled her, and she jerked back. “I—What—?”

He began laughed, fingers finding their way into her hair. “Don’t make that face, Ray. The world was never always rainbows and butterflies, but now I’ve learned it doesn’t matter as long as the people I care about are in my life.”

Whenever he got into his little sentimental moods, it always caught her off guard. She was so used to the banter. Switching gears into actual _feelings _was difficult and made her a bit more than uncomfortable. He was continually pushing her boundaries. She, somehow, was along for the ride that he had placed them upon.

He further leaned over the console, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. Wiped at the few tears that had escaped. Kissed each cheek. “I love you, my dear,” he whispered, lips brushing against her sweetly with every word.

She swallowed thickly, partially wanting to smack him for his play on the words dear and deer. But they were having a moment, and she’d hate to ruin it. “I love you, too, Lover Deer,” she breathed. She had to get her own pun in there despite the somewhat poor timing.

He pressed his lips into hers, and she melted into him. She’d always felt like a nomad. No place to call her own. Relationships, even platonic ones, had been dangers she didn’t care to afford. For so long, life had been about herself. And with that mindset, she’d lost a piece of what it meant to _be_ herself. She’d been lost and content with the directionless trajectory she was on. But he grounded her. Helped shape her world into _more_ than she’d even dared dream about.

Big, bad _sicario_ or not.

She was his home.

More importantly, he was hers.


End file.
